


Special Delivery

by nakajimagardenar



Series: The One Where You Do Giant Alien Robots [8]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: BECAUSE LET'S BE REAL WE ALL WANNA DO TARN, Breeding, Drabble Request, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I FORGOT I WROTE THIS AND ALSO YOU'RE WELCOME, Oviposition, Reader has female parts, Reader has no defined gender, SO WHO'S READY TO SIN WITH ME, Smut, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:31:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakajimagardenar/pseuds/nakajimagardenar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In where Tarn would make for a surprisingly wonderful sire, you discover.</p><p>Or, the one where Megatron's Biggest Fanboy walks you through your first clutch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special Delivery

**Author's Note:**

> You would not believe how many people want to do Tarn (myself included, though personally I prefer Kaon).

He would make for a surprisingly wonderful sire, you discover.

The Decepticon’s touch is gentle, so gentle that to anyone else (but you, of course) it would have come as a surprise, something to be regarded with suspicion and avoided (why on earth would the leader of Megatron’s Maniacal Fan Club - Oh sorry, the Decepticon Justice Division - Be so gentle, unless he was luring you into some false sense of security). He leans in closer to you, reverent little words whispered quietly against the shell of your ear - a shiver makes it way down the length of your spine, curling your toes and claiming a long, drawn out sigh from deep within you. The Decepticon smiles at your reaction, rolling his hips in that agonizingly slow and torturous way he knows only leaves you wanting for more - And more is exactly what he plans to give you, trailing heavy, blunt fingers against your collarbone and down your heaving chest before coming to rest against your distended stomach.

You can feel the soft cluster of eggs shift minutely inside of you, and you’re vaguely reminded of childhood memories involving fruit filled gelatin - It’s enough to make you chuckle to yourself, imagining Tarn’s eggs rolling lazily around inside of you like little pieces of round colourful fruit suspended in gelatin (well, that’s not too far from the truth, in a sense). The leader of the DJD tilts his head back up, pulling his attentions away from your stomach to meet your eyes with a look that could almost be considered adoring (wouldn’t that be something, to have the adoration of tarn of all bots, and not be Megatron), “Enjoying yourself, sweetspark?” The question is endearingly honest, but Tarn’s tone has it come across as more of a playful jest than anything else. You respond by rolling your eyes and pushing his face away from you in mock irritation, turning over onto your side and digging your fingers into the seams of his servos and pinching at the delicate wiring.

The Decepticon hisses under his breath, drawing his grip around your body just a little tighter and pulling you closer against him. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmurs darkly, and for a moment you’re both terribly aroused and terribly afraid, the way the tankformer looms over you, casting you in his shadow and oh so easily engulfing you in the sheer quantity of his size. But your apprehensions disappear almost as soon as they arrive, trepidation replaced with something hot and wet pooling at the pit of your stomach when Tarn raises his ever present mask just enough to uncover his mouth (you’ve seen him without the mask, once. You don’t know if you’ll ever see him like that again, but the memory burns in the back of your head and you promise yourself it’s a sight you’ll take with you to the grave), the con flashing you a smile that’s all teeth and wicked intentions before he slips between your legs and you can barely keep yourself from screaming when his glossa slips out to lap teasingly at your naked skin.

He nips at your thighs, marking you with faint scratches and deep red marks (’mine’), soothing your abused skin with barely-there kisses that grow in intensity until they’re positively bruising, before he slides his attentions back to the place between your legs. He presses a kiss against your entrance, pulling away to lick at his lips, slipping a finger between the folds of your entrance and rubbing at the gentle swell of your pelvis with another. He’s almost too big to fit, but you’re dripping wet and wanting (desperately, in fact) and you can barely manage to nod, rolling your hips downward in a wordless invitation. He slips his finger inside of you, curling it against your most sensitive of places in an attempt to pry you open, and you can only reply with a breathless gasp and the syllables of his name moaned out between parted lips. The tyrant leans forward still, lowering his head to brush his lips against your throat, nipping dangerously at your pulse, dragging his glossa along the curve of your jaw until he can press the lightest of kisses against your mouth.

His finger continues to move inside of you, working you up to the brink of an orgasm, and the Decepticon can’t help but laugh quietly when you reach up to drag your nails almost desperately against his chassis. He runs his thumb against your clit just as he presses the blunt tip of his digit against your womb, and it’s both electrifying and numbing in equal measures of pleasure and almost-but-not-quite pain - “I’m trying to loosen you up, my dear - But it seems that no matter what I do you just keep getting tighter,” his tone is dangerously low, and at this distance (or lack of it) you can feel the vibrations echo against your bones, rattling your insides and tickling the hollow space between your ribs. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you didn’t want to let go of me at all.”

There’s a part of you (the part he likes so much, the careless, irreverent part of you that you’re convinced will get you killed one day) that wants to snap something terribly witty at him, but you’re barely managing to remember how to breath properly right now, much less throw him a glare when he removes himself from inside of you with a wet, audible pop that leaves you achingly empty (he makes quite a show of licking his fingers), but you aren’t given much time to protest when something hot and thick and heavy and intimately familiar comes to rest between your legs, laying against your stomach and stopping just under your chin.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen Tarn’s spike, but you’re consistently in awe at the sheer size of it, of its girth and how positively dangerous it looks (you don’t tell him that though, because you know he would never let you live it down). It’s warm, almost scaldingly so, and the ridges scratch gently against your skin in a way that’s almost ticklish, and for a moment you allow yourself to be mesmerized by the warm glow of his biolights against your naked body, red and orange pulsing against you in what you like to imagine is the rhythm of his sparkbeat. It’s a reprieve that doesn’t last long though, before Tarn tightens his grip against you and bucks his hips agonizingly slow, a light and heedy pace that sets you on edge and makes your head spin.

There’s a touch like fire on you when his ridges catch against your skin, not quite deep enough to draw blood but deep enough to sting, and you bury your face against living metal to hiss and drag your fingernails against gleaming steel. He ruts against you (because there isn’t a conceivable way for him to actually fit inside of you, he’s just too big), the base of his spike crashing and rubbing against every inch of you he can reach, dragging you panting and gasping through an abrupt and almost painful orgasm, and somewhere in the middle of the boneless haze of pleasure you become dimly aware of the fact that there’s something firm but brittle sliding down and out of you, and you blink away the hazy clutches of an afterglow to realize that one of Tarn’s eggs (one of your eggs) has slithered out of you, the opaque and vaguely purple shell glistening in a mixture of transfluid and something else you’re certain must have come from you.

You look up to see that Tarn has stopped moving, staring intently at both you and the egg, expression unreadable and his body language giving nothing of his thoughts away. “…Tarn - ?” You only manage to whisper his name before you’re silenced with a kiss, one of Tarn’s fingers rubbing wide arching circles against your swollen stomach. “There are a few more,” he whispers against you, getting back on his knees and looming over you, the finger drawing little shapes and soothing circles against your belly slipping further south than it had any right to, “Should I loosen you up some more to help ease them out?”

**Author's Note:**

> You think I'd have gotten anons telling me to stop writing by now, but - *shrug emoji* Anyway, send my drabble prompts and requests for Transformers or Undertale (please send me your skeleton kinks) over at http://muffetsofficial.tumblr.com/ !!


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